


Sherstrade Prompts

by Iolre



Series: The Minor Key Prompts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Crack, Depression, Drabbles, Drug Use, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parentlock, Relapse, Seductive!Sherlock, Sociopath, cuteness, prompts, soulmate!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 15,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various Sherstrade drabbles I've written and posted to my prompts tumblr. Various situations, from fluff to crack to smut to anything I'm prompted with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invasion of The Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all.
> 
> This is going to be a compilation of the Sherstrade prompts given to me at my [prompts tumblr](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com) where I take prompts for minor pairings. Feel free to shoot me one if you want to see more Sherstrade (or any other 'rare' pairing)!
> 
> Prompt: Lestrade gets a cat. Sherlock gets jealous.

It was some sort of orange colour, with a hint of black creeping along the spine. It had wide, innocent eyes that seemed to turn in Sherlock’s direction whenever he snuck into Greg’s flat. Its fur was soft and fluffy, sticking up in odd angles.

It was adorable, and Sherlock hated it.

Hated it even more when he would sneak into Greg’s flat in the middle of the night to find the orange-coloured disaster curled up against his Detective Inspector, purring happily away and throwing him the smuggest smirk in the history of cat smirks.

(It was true. Sherlock had done an experiment.)

(John had threatened to lock him away after that.)

(Apparently spending two weeks talking to cats about their smirking capacity came across a bit batty.)

(Not that it had ever bothered Sherlock before. Still didn’t.)

So instead he was reduced to this, standing in Greg’s doorway and glaring hatefully at the smug bastard. The orange tail lashed about, and the purr increased, as if the cat was saying ‘Look at what I’ve got and you don’t.’ Taunting him. Baiting him.

Not that Greg knew any of this, of course. Sherlock would only come into his flat while he was asleep. It wasn’t creepy if he wanted to just watch the DI sleep. Was it? It was the cat’s fault, after all. Didn’t Greg know that cats could suck out your breath while you slept? Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but if it evicted the smug beast from Greg’s bed, from Sherlock’s position, he wasn’t going to be put out in the slightest.

The cat lifted its head and turned its wide-pupiled eyes in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock scowled at it, trying to convey his displeasure in a way that was understandable in Cat. The smirk was back on its lips, and it raised a paw pointedly in Sherlock’s direction, obviously indicating its homicidal tendencies.

Sherlock decided a tactical retreat was in order and bolted back out through the kitchen window.  
‘  
Four days later, he tried again. The sneaky cat had placed a stuffed mouse on the windowsill. A warning. Sherlock approached the bedroom a touch apprehensively - was the cat a practicing taxidermist who had chosen Greg as its next test subject?

No, apparently not, for Sherlock watched the DI sleep, tossing and turning as the cat watched smugly from the pillow it had conquered. Bastard.

“That’s my spot,” he mouthed angrily, narrowing his eyes. The tail went flick flick flick and Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration.

Then, a miracle happened.

The cat stood up and sauntered out the open door. Immediately Sherlock scurried around to the other side of Greg’s bed, tossing off his coat and shoes and stealing the cat’s prior position.

However.

Apparently Sherlock was far less sneaky than the cat, for as soon as he finished settling in he looked over to see Greg’s eyes open and staring in his direction.

“Hello,” Sherlock said reasonably. That was a reasonable thing to say, right? Having ousted his competition from its spot?

“Sherlock,” Greg said patiently, a hand coming up to rub at his eyes. He looked adorable. More than adorable. Sherlock restrained the urge to steal the hand. “What are you doing in my bed?”

“I won,” Sherlock said smugly, looking at the door and pleased that the beast was nowhere in sight.

“What did you win? Do I want to know?” The hand went to his temples.

“Do you have a headache?” Sherlock inquired helpfully. He wiggled his fingers. “Cats can suck your breath out, and asphyxia can cause headaches.” Without waiting for a response, high on his victory, Sherlock took Greg’s head into his lap and started gently scraping his fingers over the DI’s scalp. It was supposed to help. Maybe. Not that it mattered. He rather liked playing with Greg’s hair. It was silver, and soft, and silky.

Greg was watching Sherlock, a slight furrow in his brow that was so endearing and Sherlock wanted to kiss it. It was acceptable, right? To kiss one’s to-be paramour? Even if the paramour had no idea he was a paramour. Sherlock would have to change that at some point. Was there paperwork for that?

The sleepy DI made a soft noise in the back of his throat as Sherlock’s fingers continued to work their magic. Sherlock paused, just a second, and scooted back. He cradled Greg’s head in his hands and leaned down, pressing gentle, butterfly kisses to Greg’s mouth. His lips were warm and soft, and Sherlock’s lips curved in a sense of smug satisfaction as Greg started kissing back.

The cat had officially lost.


	2. Not Worth It [without you]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherstrade. Something that has to do with Greg knowing about and/or dealing with Sherlock's heavy addiction years.

Greg fiddled with the pen as he sat at his desk, staring moodily at the computer in front of him. It had been two weeks since his promotion to Detective Inspector, and he had not seen his boyfriend since the night before. Not that he had been home much, with the increase in paperwork and responsibilities. The paperwork that was sitting, undone, on his desk.

Sherlock disappearing was never a good thing. He groaned, his elbows going to the mahogany of his desk as he rubbed his temples. Sherlock was using again. There wasn’t another option, not to explain a disappearance this long. He was never at the laboratory longer than two or three days. The only other thing Sherlock did was consult on Greg’s cases, and he certainly wasn’t doing that. His phone vibrated.

You will find what you are looking for at Barts. ~MH

Greg sighed as he read the text, although whether it was relief or annoyance he was not certain. Sherlock’s brother was a medler, that was for sure. Shrugging on his coat, he left New Scotland Yard, paperwork be damned.

It took him far longer to find his boyfriend up on the roof than it did to find the hospital, and he stepped out to see the coated silhouette standing on the edge of the roof. His heart stuttered, seeing the way the Belstaff swayed in the wind. Sherlock was far too close to the edge for Greg to take any comfort from setting eyes on him again.

“Sherlock?” he said tentatively, his footfalls noisy in the stark silence. This far up, and this late at night, there was no ambient noise. It was like it was just the two of them, all alone in their own world. “Sherlock, what are you doing up here?”

“I relapsed.” Sherlock’s voice was so quiet that Greg barely heard him, and he took another few steps in Sherlock’s direction until he stood less than a metre away.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I figured.” Sherlock’s hands clenched into loose fists before unfurling, and his face was straight ahead. He did not even bother looking at Greg. “C’mon, now. Get down and we’ll get you home.”

“Why,” Sherlock said harshly, his voice full of pain. Greg took a step towards his boyfriend without realizing, reacting. “You just received a promotion to Detective Inspector, but won’t go further. I’m holding you back.”

“No, you’re not,” Greg murmured, making sure that his words were loud enough to carry. “Yeah, I just made DI. But that means I can do more for us.” Part of him was berating himself for not seeing this sooner, not seeing the conflict that was plaguing Sherlock to the point he was up on the edge of a roof at two AM. “Come here, love. Let’s go home.”

“No.” Sherlock shifted and wobbled precariously, and for a moment Lestrade’s heart nearly stopped. With a scowl the consulting detective retained his balance. “No. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Greg said evenly, fighting a rising pit of fear in his stomach. There was a noise and Sherlock’s attention was drawn to something else. Greg took advantage of the distraction to grab Sherlock around the middle and haul him down off the roof edge.

Sherlock fought for a few seconds as Greg wrapped his arms around him, crushing him to his chest. Eventually he quieted, his thin arms circling around the DI’s waist, surprisingly strong as Sherlock buried his head into the crook of Greg’s neck. “You’ll leave me,” he murmured, his vulnerability surprising Greg. “You’ll leave me. You’ll realize you can do better. It’s not worth it. Not without you.”

Something ached in Greg’s chest at Sherlock’s words. It was the most frank conversation they had had in the six months they had been together. “Shh, love. I’m not going to leave you,” Greg said softly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s curly hair. “Let’s go home. We can stop at the shop and get you some banoffee pie.”

Sherlock was quiet for a minute, his tense, whip-thin body finally relaxing against Greg’s. “And cheesecake.”

“You don’t like cheesecake.” Greg gently let go of him, keeping one hand twined with Sherlock’s as the taller man led them to the door leading inside.

Sherlock paused at the door, something strange in his eyes that made Greg’s insides go warm. “No. But you do.”


	3. To Be Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Could you do post Sherlock's return. Sherlock dealing badly with John's immediate, bad reaction to his return, and going to Lestrade. Either shippy or just protective!Greg. Up to you. :)

“He doesn’t want me anymore.” The oddly familiar tones of a low, listless baritone voice floated through Greg’s dreams. But it was impossible. It was impossible, right? Sherlock was dead. Wasn’t he? “How was I supposed to know that waking him up at 3am was a bad idea?” There was a frustrated, petulant quality to the voice now, oddly endearing.

“You’re dead.” Greg kept his eyes firmly shut, firmly pinching his arm. He was dreaming, and although he didn’t want to wake up from it (god he missed Sherlock sometimes), there was no path left but the crazy one, and he wasn’t particularly fond of that one. “We buried you.”

“You really should examine all the evidence before making such a conclusion.” The voice tsked. “Pity. I thought you were a cut above the rest.”

Greg’s eyes flew open as his mouth formed a protest that died in his throat. Sherlock was sitting on his bed, haggard, clad in the same coat and scarf he had been the day he had jumped. The only difference (and was it a difference, really?) was the shallow cut on his cheek, bleeding sluggishly. “You’re alive?” He blinked stupidly.

There was an exaggerated sigh. “Yes. Do keep up, Lestrade.” He shook his head. “And I thought this was such an easy concept to grasp.”

Greg rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, turning on his back. “Well, we did bury you two years ago.”

Sherlock snorted. “You buried Moriarty.”

“Good riddance,” the DI muttered, flopping onto his stomach. Well fuck. What did he do now? What did he say? Sherlock was still alive. He could see Sherlock’s face out of the corner of his eyes, feel the intense gaze on the bare skin of his back. It wasn’t fair. He had just gotten back into the habit of sleeping nude. Now he had to plan for random Sherlock invasions. “Have you cleaned that cut?”

“This?” A derisive snort. “Not necessary.”

“It needs to at least be cleaned, Sherlock,” Greg said patiently, turning on his side. He ensured that the sheet covered him strategically, although he was fairly sure that Sherlock knew he was naked. “How about you go out - there, and I’ll come join you in a bit and I’ll get you all patched up?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why must I leave?”

“I’m naked, Sherlock.”

“And?”

“...please vacate your quite nicely clothed body off of my bed so I can put some pants on.”

“No.”

Greg rubbed his forehead, reminding himself to be patient. “Sherlock.”

The stubborn bastard lifted an eyebrow.

“Fine. But you asked for it.” Steeling himself, Greg scooted on the bed until he was at the edge closest to the draw containing his pants. Bravely he let go of the sheet and stood up, colour forming in his cheeks at the embarrassment of being nude underneath Sherlock Holmes’ intense gaze. Quickly slipping on a pair of pants and pyjama bottoms, he turned back around.

Sherlock was watching him, colour high on his cheeks. His pupils were dilated and his breathing had increased. Greg frowned at him, eyebrows knitting together in concern, and he stepped over, pressing the back of his hand to Sherlock’s forehead. “Are you okay? You don’t have a fever, but…”

There was a hand on the wrist and Greg felt himself being tossed onto the bed, pinned by six feet of long, lanky consulting detective. “But you…” Sherlock’s husky baritone trailed off, and Greg was staring straight into intense blue/gray eyes, pupils dilated so that only a thin rim of the colour could be seen. “You want me.” He leaned down, pressing an experimental kiss to Greg’s lips.

It felt like someone had sparked him with electricity, and he jerked underneath Sherlock. It had been the lightest touch of lips, but already he could feel himself growing hard. Fuck. There was a pleased smirk dancing about Sherlock’s lips, and Greg felt the taller man’s hand on his crotch. A soft moan escaped the DI, and he fought to remind himself of what a bad idea this was, how he most certainly should stop and educate Sherlock on why he did not slip into his bed, declare his state of living, and then pin him to the bed and seduce him.

As Sherlock kissed him again, hungrier this time, Greg’s mind crashed and burned, and he kissed back eagerly.

There was plenty of time to educate Sherlock later.


	4. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherstrade pre-john, first meeting maybe?

Sherlock scowled fiercely as he was cuffed by the detective, his torso pressed against the wall. That was what he got, for running from the police. Idiots they were, the lot of them. Who cared if he was high on heroin when there were murderers out there, not being caught because of their rampant stupidity.

“Stop fighting,” the police man told him, his voice unusually gentle. It was a plain sort of voice, low and comforting, but it sent something flipping in Sherlock's stomach. He bristled, drawing his tattered clothes around him like armour. He wasn’t going to go easy just because some chocolate-mouthed, jumped-up police officer told him to. Careful hands turned him around, and his insults froze in his mouth.

The man was thirty five or about there, and strikingly gorgeous. He had a kind face, world-worn and weary, lines about his mouth and eyes showing the long hours he put in at his job - he took it seriously. His hair was dark brown, silver about the edges, sweat from the chase slicking the strands together. They would be soft underneath his fingers, he would bet, and he shivered involuntarily at the thought of running his hand through the stranger's dark hair. His eyes were a warm brown, but piercing at the same time, like they would see through any defense Sherlock tried.

"What's your name?" the man asked him. Sherlock tightened his lips, stubborn. He felt a hand rummaging about in his threadbare pockets, and the corner of his lips quirked up when the police man sighed at the lack of ID. "Don't be like this." Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

"You're a detective sergeant, about to be promoted to detective inspector. Late thirties, although I would guess thirty five or so. Graying at your temples, lines around your eyes and mouth - you work long hours, yet you're on a drugs bust. Why? Favour for a coworker. You're an ethical man, you wouldn't let me go, no matter what I said. You truly believe in the justice system. However, you won't have a choice in a few moments when you receive a phone call that says to let me go. Recently divorced, no children, yet you had a cat that your ex-wife kept. You're thinking of getting another one, but you're realistic about it given your schedule." Sherlock paused in his deductions, tilting his head to the side. "Did I miss anything?"

The police man was silent, and his hands had frozen from where he kept one on Sherlock's cuffed wrists. The silence was broken when his phone started ringing, and Sherlock smirked at the look on his face. The policeman lifted his phone to his ear. "Lestrade here...yeah, I got him. Yeah, sounds like him. What? Why? ...yes, yes sir, of course. No harm done." He hung up the phone and stuck it back in his pocket, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Sherlock. "I'm to let you go, no questions asked."

"I'm sure you have a great many questions, Detective Sergeant," Sherlock said airily, pleased when his handcuffs were removed. He rubbed his wrists, restoring blood flow. Dusting himself off, he walked past the detective sergeant, brushing against him as he did so. "I'm quite busy, I'm afraid." A fake smile was on his face, and he smirked one last time. "The name's Sherlock Holmes." Turning around, he strode off down the alley. He flipped open the warrant card in his hand. Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade. How interesting.

He would figure out the puzzle of the odd police man later. For now, he had another problem to deal with. Scratching the inside of his arm absentmindedly, he texted his dealer to find another location for his next hit.


	5. To Care [for one another]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Greg having a disastrous case and Sherlock realizing it. Without saying anything, he attempts to console Greg in his own way, whether it be having dinner made or ... listening to him rant or ... whatever other things Sherlock would do.

Greg scrubbed a hand through his hair tiredly as he opened the door to his flat. He had to stifle a groan when he saw the light in the kitchen on. Not that he didn’t appreciate seeing his boyfriend - he did, really - but it had been a fucking miserable day and all he wanted was to drink a beer and watch crap telly. Push all the memories of the dead-and-broken 12-year-old girl from his head.

Pulling off his coat, he threw it onto the back of a chair and walked into the kitchen, stopping as soon as Sherlock came into view. The consulting detective was muttering nonsensical words at the sink, hunched over it as he was, up to his elbows in - dirty dish washer. “Are you doing the dishes?” Greg asked stupidly, feeling as if the world had turned upside down.

Sherlock half-turned, his soapy forearms still in the water. “You’re home. Good. Grab a beer and sit down. The TV’s already turned to your show, you just have to turn it on.” He scowled petulantly at the small plastic device, resting on the table. “I would do it, but I can’t reach the remote with my foot.”

“You’re doing the dishes.” Greg was certain that his eyes were wide as saucers.

“You’re repeating yourself.” Sherlock allowed the barest hint of a smile to grace his face. There was a knock at the door and he let go of whatever he was holding in the sink and grabbed a few notes off of the table. Greg just stood and stared, blinking occasionally at the floor, watching the small puddles form as water dripped off of Sherlock’s skin. He came back with takeaway, two bags full of cartons. The smell was delicious, and Greg’s mouth watered. Sherlock stopped, lifting an eyebrow, his eyes pointedly going to the refrigerator. “There’s no fingers.”

The spell broken, Greg shook himself mentally and opened up the refrigerator, pulling out a cold beer and heading for the couch. “I saw the toes,” he called back to Sherlock.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. You didn’t complain about those.” Sherlock sounded distracted, and Greg had to fight the urge to find out exactly what he was doing. Instead he used the remote to turn on the TV, having snatched the small device on his way to the couch. He sank back into its comfortable cushions.

It wasn’t long before a plate stuffed full of his favourite take-out appeared in front of him, a fork stuck into a pile of rice. “Eat.” Sherlock nudged him over, a smaller plate in his other hand, folding his lanky limbs underneath him as he settled next to the DI.

Sherlock didn’t eat often, but when he did, he ate quickly, so his smaller plate was gone in no time and resting precariously on the coffee table in front of them. Greg ate slower, more deliberately, savouring the flavours as they blended in his mouth. Sherlock snuck closer and closer, like a bloody cat, until he was stretched out the length of the couch, his warm, lanky body covering the majority of Greg’s. He did make a good plate holder like that, so Greg obligingly rested the mostly-eaten plate on Sherlock’s back. Once he was completely finished, he was gracious and moved it to the table.

Not having to worry about anything had done more good than Greg had anticipated. He was tense, still, but it was less noticeable. Carefully he stroked a hand into Sherlock’s curls, the other arm draped over the taller man’s lower back, possessive. “So what was all of that for?” he asked softly, leaning down slightly to press a kiss to Sherlock’s head. Sherlock tensed, and Greg frowned.

Sherlock’s fingers were curled into the rumpled cloth of Greg’s shirt, and they tightened, threatening to pop off a button or two. “Nothing,” he muttered, his grip so tight that Greg feared he was going to destroy the shirt. Not that he would object, sometimes, but it wasn’t the fun way that Sherlock normally ripped his clothes off. Greg had gotten rather good at sewing buttons back on, so it wouldn’t be a horrible loss, but there was obviously something bothering Sherlock and that wasn’t good.

Greg opened his mouth to say something and stopped. He was aware at this point that saying the wrong thing, whatever it was, could cause Sherlock to clam up and stop communicating altogether. As he thought, time passed, and Sherlock’s grip slowly relaxed, settling to where he was plucking at Greg’s shirt with anxious fingers, no longer threatening to rip the seams open. “Thank you,” he said finally, the words soft. Sherlock’s fingers stilled at the sound of Greg’s words, considering.

“You -” Sherlock halted, fingers twisting again, showing his anxiety. He seemed to be struggling with his words, struggling with putting his emotions into something Greg could understand. They had been together over six months, and still there were things he did not understand, demons that Sherlock could not put into words.

“I love you,” Greg murmured, the words feeling heavy as he said them for the first time. There was a weight to them, an importance, but it was a freeing sensation, saying them. Silence continued to drag on, and Sherlock’s fingers were still, his face hidden in Greg’s shirt. The DI had no way to measure his reaction, no way to gauge if it had been too much, if he had just triggered a relapse or something equally dramatic - one never knew with Sherlock’s personality what would happen.

Slowly a hand creeped up his body, curling around his cheek, tentative, sweet. Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes narrowed, intense, and Greg felt heat curl in his belly. There was a hunger there, in Sherlock’s eyes, something that threatened to devour him. “You mean that?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

Greg barely managed a “Yes” before his lips were captured in a heated kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock did make Greg dinner, but he burnt it and got take-away instead.


	6. So Little, But So Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherlock/Lestrade pre-slash: everyone knows Sherlock will pull dangerous stunts to clear a case, and everyone will chastise him/ throw their hands in the air when he does it. What happens when Lestrade takes a page out of Sherlock's book?

Greg sat in the ambulance, watching the paramedic sew up the laceration in his arm. It had been a fairly clean graze, and Sally had taken down the perp right after he had fired at Greg, but it still smarted. He had taken a page out of Sherlock’s book, racing ahead to catch up with the serial killer and leaving his backup behind. Greg had been grazed by a bullet as a thanks.

Sherlock appeared in Greg’s line of sight, and Greg offered him a tired smile. The paramedic finished bandaging the stitched wound. “No showering for at least twenty four hours, and when you do, don’t get the stitches wet,” he said sternly. Greg nodded his agreement, flexing the arm and wincing as it stung. Then he turned to look at Sherlock.

The taller man had his arms crossed, and his posture was tense, fingers tapping out a recurring rhythm against his arm. His face was tight, lips a thin line and eyes narrowed in Greg’s direction. He was dressed normally, Belstaff swaying in the wind Sally appeared on his other side, and Greg turned to look at her.

“That was pretty stupid of you,” she said without preamble, her voice flat. Then her gaze turned to Sherlock, pointedly, and she scowled. It was obvious even to Greg’s exhausted state that she blamed Sherlock for what Greg had done, and to be completely honest, it wasn’t like she was incorrect in her assumption.

“I’ll accompany him home.” Sherlock’s words were tight, terse, and Sally blinked in his direction, as startled as Greg.

“What - no, I’m fine,” Greg protested, holding his uninjured arm up defensively.

“You’re not. Sergeant Donovan, nice seeing you.” Sherlock turned his fake smile in her direction, dismissive, before striding forward and urging Greg into a standing position. The DI stood unsteadily, his knees nearly buckling before Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting him.

Greg wasn’t entirely certain what to make of the situation. It was the most Sherlock had ever touched him, and he was being - unusually gentle, especially after the irritation that had been present in his tone. Sherlock walked him to the street, flagging down a taxi and ushering Greg into the seat next to him. He gave the cab driver Greg’s address and it sped off, the two sitting quietly in the back.

Sherlock was obviously restless, fingers tapping absently on his thigh as he stared out the window. Greg wasn’t certain what to say, for he didn’t even know what was going on. Sherlock left Greg to pay the cabbie (of course), although he held the door open for Greg to get out. Leading the DI up to his flat, Sherlock unlocked it and gently led him inside, steering him towards the sofa.

“Sit,” Sherlock said, looking pointedly at the sofa. Greg sat, staring, as Sherlock entered his kitchen and turned on the kettle.

“What are you doing?” he asked finally.

Sherlocked looked at him, frowning slightly. “It must be obvious even to you, Lestrade. I’m making tea.”

“Why?”

“Because you like tea,” Sherlock answered with a shrug. Once it was finished he approached the dazed Greg, two small pills in one hand and tea in the other. “Take these.”

“What are they?” Greg asked suspiciously.

“Just over the counter painkillers.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Well, it is you handing them to me,” Greg muttered, taking them and downing them with a sip of tea. He looked at Sherlock, surprised. “You know how I like it.”

Faint spots of colour appeared high on Sherlock’s cheeks, but he looked away, hiding his embarrassment. “Of course I do.” He removed his coat and hung it up, coming over to gently ease Greg’s off before doing the same with it. Greg sat, sipping the tea and trying to ignore Sherlock’s eyes on him. He was suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline having left his body. All he wanted to do was sleep.

Finishing the mug of tea, he placed it on the coffee table, sinking back onto the couch with a groan. Hopefully the painkillers would kick in fast, and he would be able to sleep without pain. “Here.” Sherlock sank onto the couch, his face guarded and his lips tense. He seemed nervous, anxious, and he gently guided Greg until he was laying on the couch, his head in Sherlock’s lap. His wounded arm was facing outwards, not receiving the pressure of the couch like his other arm was.

Greg looked up at Sherlock, his heart thumping in his chest. It was - strangely tender, Sherlock doing such a thing, and he wasn’t completely sure what to make of it. Sherlock watched him, examining his face, but refused to make eye contact. He gently shifted a strand of hair off of Lestrade’s forehead,and there was something anxious in his face that caused Greg’s breath to hitch. It was strangely intimate, and he wasn’t certain what to say, or what to do.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of Sherlock that way - god, he had - but he had never considered it realistic that something would happen. Not that he was exactly in a position for anything to happen, tired and painful as he was. He allowed a slight smile, indicating for Sherlock to continue, and gently reached up with his uninjured arm to tug at Sherlock’s hand. The taller man allowed Greg to twine their fingers together, and Greg rested the laced hands on his chest, comforted by the warmth, the closeness.

He fell asleep like that, held by Sherlock, by the man who fought to seem like he felt so little, but cared so much.


	7. To Grow [unnoticed]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Could I request some Sherstrade inspired by Rock 'n Roll Suicide by David Bowie?

The first time Greg met Sherlock Holmes, he was a Uni dropout, wrists so thin they could be snapped like twigs, and so high that he had to spend an evening in prison, only to be bailed out by his scary-looking older brother. Greg had been the one in charge of arresting him, had booked him and walked him to his cell. It was something Greg quite regretted, a few days later.

He walked inside his flat, only to see Sherlock there. High, and asleep on his couch, looking impeccably clean for a drug addict. Greg watched him sleep, kept an eye on him, left a glass of water on the table next to him when he left for work the next day. He never would have been able to explain to anyone why he didn’t arrest him, why he didn’t haul in the fragile-looking young man. There was just something about him that Greg wanted to protect, some last shreds of innocence that he did not want to disturb.

When Greg returned home after a long shift of chasing murderers, Sherlock was no longer there. Greg brushed it off as a one-time thing, although he could not deny that at least part of him was regretful, sad that he was absent from Greg’s shabby little flat. Life went on like normal, as if Greg had never met Sherlock Holmes.

Until three days later, when Greg stepped out of his bedroom, only to find Sherlock crashed on the sofa. He sighed, but without knowing why, made a mug of tea and placed it next to him. A sandwich went next to it. Sherlock was far too skinny, and even if he only ate a few bites, it was better than nothing.

This continued for weeks, until weeks moved into months, and months into nearly a year. Sherlock would appear in Greg’s flat three or four nights a week, stay the night, sometimes through the day. He slept on the couch, spoke little, eating what Greg pushed at him and asking for nothing. The majority of time he would not even look at Greg, wouldn’t make eye contact.

Sometimes Sherlock was high. Sometimes he was not. Twice Greg caught him with his case files, and he made a point of hiding them. After that, they were simply rearranged, once a week, as if Sherlock was making a point that Greg could hide nothing from him. There were notes, written in an elegant, spidery handwriting, notes that more often than not led Greg to solving a case.

Greg couldn’t shake the feeling, some nights, that someone was watching him sleep. There were nights he woke up in the early dawn, certain that he heard his door shut, heard someone moving out where Sherlock was. Whenever he went to check, Sherlock was asleep, in the same position he had been when Greg went to bed. Greg would make some tea, take a mug to his room and leave one next to where Sherlock was sleeping. It was always empty the next morning, even when Sherlock was gone.

It was eleven months, six days, and three hours, from the time of their first meeting, when Greg brought Sherlock to a crime scene with him. His Sergeant, an ambitious girl named Sally Donovan, had been skeptical, throwing vitriol in Sherlock’s direction until Greg told her to cut it out. She went to her favourite forensics tech, her ego soothed until Lestrade separated them. Sally was smart as a whip, but had a long history of getting mixed up with the wrong people.

Two days later, thanks to Sherlock’s input, they caught the killer. Cuffed and shoved into the back of the police car, Greg turned to the taller man, his face breaking out into a wide grin. Sherlock allowed the corner of his mouth to curve up, and Greg felt like he was soaring. It was the most emotion he had seen the younger man display.

He could not deny that his heart plummeted as Sherlock turned around and sauntered off, the Belstaff Greg had bought him swaying in the wind. Not that Greg was upset for long, after all. It was not like Sherlock was going to break pattern, after this. He would likely be in Greg’s flat later that night, or a few days at max.

Greg did not see Sherlock for two weeks. It nearly broke his heart, the time. Without realizing it he had become - attached (was that the right word?) to the younger man, had grown so used to having him around his flat. Greg exhaled. Might as well be honest. There was a large part of him that was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Which was an insane idea in itself - how could one love someone that they had exchanged barely a handful of words with? Not that, in Greg’s experience, love was ever rational.

He came home from work the next night late, so late that it was nearly morning. Not that it mattered, for he knew there was not going to be anyone there. Sherlock had not even appeared on his crime scenes. Greg just figured that Sherlock had come to his senses, decided to stop associating with the tired old copper.

Gentle hands helped removed his coat, and Greg spun around, seeing Sherlock standing right next to him, blue-gray eyes piercing. There was something in them, something that made Greg’s head spin with want. “I’m clean,” Sherlock murmured, his voice husky. He stepped forward and Greg stepped back, until Sherlock had him pinned against the wall, just with those ethereal eyes of his.

“Good,” Greg managed. He had spoken a word. That was a word, right? His mind had given up any attempt at being coherent.

Then Sherlock kissed him, and all Greg could think of was kissing him back.


	8. Covet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherlock likes Lestrade, but he’s married. He hates Lestrade’s wife because he knows she’s cheating on Lestrade, and he hates how she can easily throw away what Sherlock has always wanted. He confronted L's wife and tells Lestrade about his wife infidelity on Christmas. After the divorce is finalized Sherlock doesn't quite know what to do now that Lestrade is single. Lestrade makes the first move instead.

The first time Sherlock saw the signs, he spoke the words casually, told Lestrade that his wife was cheating on him. Lestrade was a smart man, he would realize that she was a liar and a cheater, and he would divorce her and accept Sherlock’s advances. When all that happened was Lestrade looking at Sherlock funny when he attempted to flirt, Sherlock withdrew. He relapsed, faded into hiding.

Four months later, he resurfaced. Except this time, things were different.

She was cheating again, that much was for certain. Sherlock hated it, hated the way he saw Lestrade and saw him smile, convinced that things were on the mend. Lestrade was far too good for someone like her, and if he was not going to do anything about it, Sherlock would. This time he went to her, kept his identity hidden yet threatened her all the same.

It was Christmas, less than a year later, that Sherlock worked up his courage to tell Lestrade. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hide. Was cool and detached, factual and unemotional. Lestrade looked hurt, looked wounded, and Sherlock knew it was his fault. But Sherlock could not do anything about it, couldn’t offer comfort. He didn’t want to risk the rejection that he had witnessed earlier, didn’t want to risk Lestrade withdrawing from him altogether.

Sherlock wasn’t exactly certain what to think when he saw Lestrade was no longer wearing his wedding ring. Two weeks later, he overheard him telling John that the divorce had gone through, and listened to John making the appropriate sympathetic noises. He spent an evening tracking Lestrade to his new flat, watching him get moved in, setting his belongings up so it was as close to his prior home as it had been.

Lestrade said nothing when the photo of his ex-wife vanished off of the mantle. Maybe he didn’t notice, or maybe he knew Sherlock had destroyed it, had banished the poison from Lestrade’s flat. He had deserved so much better than her, he deserved Sherlock. Now that there was that opportunity, however, Sherlock had no idea what to make out of it.

It was three months later, a normal day. Sherlock entered Lestrade’s office, settling down into the chair and waiting for the DI to notice him. John had been summoned for an extra day of work (boring) and Sherlock was stuck in the middle of a case by himself, with no answers. He was determined to wait until Greg gave them to him, gave him the access to the victim’s family that he needed.

“Sherlock,” Greg said with a groan. “What are you doing here?”

“I need the file,” Sherlock told him impatiently.

“No,” Greg replied. “Not this time.”

Sherlock wasn’t a child. He wasn’t going to whine. He was going to pout, however. Greg looked up, watching him, and sighed. He leaned back in his chair. There was something in Greg’s eyes that made Sherlock’s stomach flip, and he felt like his skin was tingly, on fire. “Come here.”

Immediately Sherlock stood, wary, but stepped closer to the DI, staying approximately twenty five centimetres away. Greg stood, his head tilted to the side. “It’s been three months,” Greg offered.

“Three months?” Sherlock asked innocently, as if he did not know what Lestrade was referring to. It was not the direction he had anticipated the conversation going.

“Mhm,” Greg agreed. He gently grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pressed him against the wall, and kissed him. Once he pulled back, Sherlock stared at him, dazed.

“That was...good,” Sherlock said, his mind consumed with the desire to push himself back against Greg and kiss him some more.

“Good.” Greg grinned. He pressed himself back against Sherlock and kissed him senseless.


	9. What Knowledge Brings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherlock never cares about soulmates, different from John who actively searches for his 'Mary'. Nobody knows the name on his wrists, and Sherlock never search for his 'Gregory'. Lestrade knows that Sherlock is his soulmate, but Sherlock never said anything about it so he simply thinks that Sherlock doesn’t want him as his soulmate. Still, there was a pull between the two of them. When Sherlock discovered his name in Dartmoor, everything suddenly makes sense.

“Greg?” Sherlock had rolled his eyes, snorting. “Why are you calling yourself Greg?”

“Because it’s my name, Sherlock,” Lestrade had gritted out through clenched teeth.

Sherlock drew himself up, had looked down his nose at the DI, his eyes narrowed. “Gregory?”

Lestrade in response had rolled his eyes and sighed. “You steal enough of my bloody warrant cards, you bastard. You can’t tell me that you didn’t know my name.”

Sherlock had said nothing, instead turning on his heels and walking off.

It was three weeks later, and he was laying on the couch, his hands twined together on his stomach, his eyes closed.

Gregory.

The moment he had heard it, the letters on his wrists had tingled. Unconsciously he rubbed a finger over the name scribed upon the soft skin, written there to last an eternity. Every person was born with the name of their soul mate, knew that there was someone out there just for them. Sherlock, however, was realistic. understanding the concept that even if someone had been promised to him at birth, the likelihood of them tolerating his non-socially-appropriate behavior was nearly zero.

Lestrade.

But no. Sherlock had finally, after many years, found his soul mate. And it was the DI. Lestrade. One of the few people who had stuck with him, had stayed through - as it would be colloquially put - thick and thin. He saved Sherlock when he overdosed, gave him what he needed to be clean. Even Sherlock had to admit that Lestrade was not unappealing in a carnal fashion. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or dismayed at the idea. Quickly standing up, Sherlock showered and dressed. There was only one way he was going to find out the answers to what he needed, and he never had been a patient man.

Much to his annoyance, Lestrade wasn’t home when Sherlock arrived. Which was made even more annoying by the fact it was three AM. He was up late doing paperwork, then. Irritating. Didn’t Lestrade know he needed to be home when Sherlock wanted to talk to him? It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that there was no point in notifying him ahead of time. Lestrade would do silly things, like barricading the doors and windows, and he did always fuss when Sherlock had to forcibly break in.

Barely twenty minutes later, Lestrade opened the door and walked in, obviously weary. “You took forever,” Sherlock muttered, quickly sitting up and striding over to the surprised DI.

“Sherlock,” he groaned. “What the fuck are you doing in my flat? It’s three fucking thirty in the morning, and I have to be back to work in four hours. Go home.”

Ignoring Lestrade’s voice, Sherlock reached out and grabbed Lestrade’s forearm. It was quite rude, looking at someone’s wrists without permission, but Sherlock didn’t care. There it was, the evidence lying bare. ‘Sherlock’. “You.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, letting go of Greg’s arm like it had burned him.

Greg sighed, running his other hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Now can you go away? I don’t need being officially rejected by you to complete this as the worst day of my life.”

Sherlock blinked. He wouldn’t admit it at the moment, but he could not deny being puzzled. “Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock told Greg instead.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, for Greg’s face tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Don’t be stupid?” There was something in Greg’s eyes, dark with anger and lust, and it sent sparks of electricity racing down Sherlock’s spine. Greg stepped closer, crowding Sherlock against the wall. “I wonder who’s the stupid one here. I get that you don’t want me, Sherlock. But you need to respect my boundaries and stop showing up at my flat in the middle of the night. You don’t need to rub it in.”

Sherlock swallowed twice before he was able to speak. “I didn’t know.”

Greg laughed, a short, mirthless exhalation that Sherlock didn’t understand. “You don’t have to lie. Now please, go home.” He backed up, allowing room for Sherlock to leave.

Standing in place, Sherlock glared at Greg for a few moments. He wasn’t understanding it. How difficult could it be? Not that Sherlock was entirely certain what to do. Sure, he had kissed someone once or twice, but it was boring and not-interesting and he had never bothered repeating the experiment. But this was his soul mate, his bonded, and it was supposed to be different.

Stepping forward, Sherlock carefully placed his hands on Greg’s shoulders and tentatively pressed their lips together. Greg tensed underneath him, his entire body going rigid. “Oh,” he breathed out, a soft, confusing exhalation, and Sherlock’s brows knitted together as he attempted to discern the meaning behind it.

Quickly he was sidetracked as Greg pressed up against him, his mouth moving against his, soft and tender yet possessive at the same time. It was overwhelming, it was too much, it was not enough, and for once, Sherlock knew what it was to be wanted, to be desired, to be loved. It was racing through his veins, the love he felt for the other man, and it felt oddly right. It felt perfect to be pressed up against the DI, his arms solidly wrapped about Sherlock’s waist, hips against his, their mouths locked as they continued to kiss.

Sherlock broke the kiss, panting, and he looked into Greg’s face, surprised to see the other man’s pupils blown wide. He wasn’t sure what to say. It all seemed highly inappropriate, snogging someone randomly, but a somewhat coherent part of him pointed out that that was rather the point, the whole soul mate thing notwithstanding, and Sherlock scowled mentally. If this was what snogging reduced him to, sex was going to have to be undertaken with careful consideration for reservation of his mental capacities.

“Stop thinking,” Greg murmured huskily, lips trailing up to nibble at Sherlock’s earlobe. “Turn off that brain of yours.”

Sherlock shuddered under the sensation, his fingers spasming as they moved to lightly grip Greg’s biceps. “No.”

Greg chuckled, his voice low and seductive. “Let’s see what I can do to change your mind, hm?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’d like to see you try.”

Greg towed him off to bed without another word.


	10. Amor vincit omnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt: Sherstrade. Lestrade is diagnosed with cancer. Pre-slash, or established relationship. It's up to you. 
> 
> This is not nearly as angsty as it could be, so don't chu worry. I went easy on them.

Everything had been a blur, the past couple weeks. If Greg had any doubt that Sherlock cared for him, it disappeared the moment he pulled off, having sucked Greg to orgasm, and said in a flat, unaffected tone, that Greg needed to see a doctor, and needed to see one soon. It had been a whirlwind after that, with terms like ‘cancer’, ‘5-year survival rate’, ‘operation’ tossed around with such great importance. Greg left the surgery feeling a bit dazed, his partner walking next to him.

If Greg didn’t know better, he would have thought Sherlock was a ghost, with how little he spoke. He was silent. He didn’t snap at the doctors, didn’t argue with them, didn’t fight. He listened with mute acceptance. Well, Greg amended, he had fought with the first doctor. Sherlock had stopped arguing once Mycroft had arranged for Greg’s medical care, allowing him access to the best oncologists available.

Not that Greg could fault him for struggling. He doubted that Sherlock had ever expected to encounter this particular challenge when they started dating. Nothing about their relationship had been usual, Greg thought with a sigh. Until now. Cancer, the great equalizer. It struck down Detective Inspectors and the homeless alike. It was something Sherlock couldn’t fight. Something he couldn’t make better.

Greg had still been working, the past few weeks, but there had not been a case he had been able to entice Sherlock into looking at. From what John had told him, the majority of the time Sherlock had been on the sofa of 221B, staring at the ceiling. The times he wasn’t with Greg at a doctor’s appointment, that was. He would come, stay, support. And then kiss Greg and leave.

It hurt. Greg couldn’t deny it. Coming home, to the double bed, and not having Sherlock there to hold, to hug, to kiss. To draw comfort from. He reminded himself to be patient. Greg knew, just knew that Sherlock hadn’t been through anything like what was happening. He acted arrogant, acted snarky, but once he opened up, he was heartbreakingly vulnerable. As much as Greg accepted his partner for who he was, and loved him for it, it did little to dull the pain of the nights alone, terror and fear gripping him as he laid on their bed, unable to sleep.

Testicular cancer, they had said. Stage one. Simple surgery, maybe a little chemotherapy, and he would be okay. The overall survival rate was nearly one hundred percent. But god, he wanted his boyfriend with him. Not just at the appointments, but at home. Where he could hug him, kiss him. So Sherlock could hold him, and tell him it would be okay. (Then Greg would have to check him for a fever, but he was willing to make that trade off).

Greg sighed and pulled himself back into reality, lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and pressing a kiss to his lips. “I’m going home. I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Sherlock paused, and Greg watched him, unusually apprehensive. There was something nervous about Sherlock, some sort of fidgety energy that the taller man rarely displayed. “May I - can I come with you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Greg’s face broke out into a tired grin, and he slipped his hand into Sherlock’s and twined the fingers together. It wasn’t a long walk to his flat, and he wanted to drag out the time that he got to spend with Sherlock. They walked in silence, although it was comfortable, Sherlock’s grip on Greg’s hand just a bit too tight. Greg squeezed reassuringly before letting go once they had arrived, digging his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door.

Sherlock shut and locked the door behind them, pausing once he was inside, as if he wasn’t sure where he could go. “Jacket off, love,” Greg advised, stroking a cautious hand down Sherlock’s cheek before stepping into the kitchen. He felt tingly, hypersensitive. It was the first time Sherlock had been inside his flat in over a month. Mostly Greg had gone over to 221B when John was gone, checked on Sherlock, and left.

When Greg came out of the kitchen, Sherlock hadn’t moved. Greg held in a sigh, inhaled, exhaled, and sat down the mugs on the same dining table. He walked over to his lover, aware of the way Sherlock tensed as he came close, how he was avoiding eye contact. None of it was good, and Greg didn’t know what to make of it. Was Sherlock preparing to break up with him? Greg wasn’t sure what he would do, if that was the case.

“I’m sorry.” The words were so quiet that Greg nearly didn’t hear them. He paused, taken aback.

“For what, exactly?” Clarification was good. For all he knew Sherlock was apologizing for something he was about to do, instead of what he had done.

Sherlock stepped closer, cautiously, as if Greg was going to push him away, and then reached out and pulled Greg into a hug. He wrapped his thin arms about Greg’s body. Greg inhaled, realizing how much he had missed this, how much he had missed having Sherlock against him. It was like a dam broke, like everything came flowing at once, the emotions surging to the forefront. He could feel tears rolling down his face, could feel his body shaking, but it felt like it was happening to someone else, not to him.

He felt Sherlock stroke his cheeks, press gentle kisses to his head, hold him closer, warm and steady. The quiet baritone of Sherlock’s voice wrapped around Greg like a warm blanket, comforting and steady, and he forced in a shaky breath. “For leaving you alone.” Sherlock kissed Greg’s head again before letting go, leaving Greg cold and isolated. For once, it was like their positions were reversed. Greg was vulnerable, Sherlock his protector. “I had this engraved for you.”

Sherlock took off his coat, hanging it up, but pulling a box from the pocket, one Greg was startled to realize he hadn’t seen until now. It was a watch, an elegant one. Part of Greg hoped that having such an expensive-looking watch would discourage Sherlock from ruining any more of his. He had gone through six since they got together two years ago. Greg flipped it over, blinking at the engraving on the back.  
 __  
Amor vincit omnia  
SH & GL  
  
“What does it mean?” Greg asked. Sherlock quietly took the watch from him, slipped it onto Greg’s wrist, fastening it.

“Love conquers all,” Sherlock muttered, fingers caressing the smooth surface of the watch. He lifted shy eyes to meet Greg’s. Greg felt an overwhelming surge of warmth, of affection, drowning out the sadness at least temporarily. “I’m sorry, for leaving you to face this on your own.” He kissed Greg’s forehead, kissed his eyelids, kissed his nose, and kissed him on the lips. “I won’t leave you again.”

“Not until there’s an interesting case, at least,” Greg teased gently. He felt full to the brim of a warm, bubbling emotion, so intense that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“Has to be at least a 7,” Sherlock pointed out. He slipped a hand into Greg’s, and squeezed. Taking pity on him, Greg wrapped him in a hug.

“I missed you,” he told Sherlock, his voice soft, far too weak for his liking. Greg rarely liked the vulnerability that came along with admitting something like that, hated the way it made him feel.

“We’ll get through this.” Sherlock’s voice was firm. “Together.”

Greg let go of his partner, except for their linked hands. The time for talking was over. He kissed him once more, lingering, and then dragged him to the bedroom.


	11. SilverFox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for this prompt: After the divorce, Sally and Anderson keep pestering Lestrade to see someone new. Dimmock made him an online dating profile (HandsomeDI? SilverFox? LOLOLOL) and finally Lestrade cracks under pressure. He started getting a ridiculous number of messages and invites until finally he saw someone that grabbed his interest (it was Sherlock - whether or not they knew each other before and Sherlock doing this on purpose is up to you °ω°)

Greg had treated it like a joke, when Dimmock made him a dating profile online. Humoured Sally and Anderson’s constant nagging about ‘finding a new someone’ after his wife left. Then the messages to ‘SilverFox’ started flowing in. Too many for him to sort through. Greg had asked Dimmock and the others exactly who they had bribed into messaging him, and they had grinned and shook their heads. Bastards.

It had taken him ages to sort through enough messages to set up a couple meetings. The first had gone disastrously, with his date downing a couple pints and getting weepy over an ex-boyfriend. Greg had patted her arm sympathetically and listened to her rambles. Next had been with a bloke that had sat there like stone despite all of Greg’s best attempts at conversation. Not his most stellar dates

He’d been right ready to give up, too. Throw the whole thing behind him.

Sally and Dimmock rallied, begging for one last chance. Greg acquiesced. Picked one more. Set up a meeting in a bar, somewhere public. Sally and Dimmock did rock, paper, scissors, to see who would be able to stalk him about the bar. After three ties, they agreed to share the duty and set about discussing disguises. Greg tried to ignore both of them as he finished up his work and went home to get dressed.

Greg strode in the bar, smoothing down the button-up he wore, self conscious. He had dressed in nice jeans that showed off his arse and a shirt that he had been told brought out the colour of his eyes. All in all, a good combination. Sally had vetted it, at least, and that was what mattered. She had even fussed over his hair, ensuring it was Perfect. Like Greg cared! Although maybe he did. Just a little bit. He didn’t really have high hopes for the date, though. There had been something about the profile that had felt right. It was a different feeling than the rest.So he was cautiously optimistic.

He caught sight of Sally, sitting in a corner, hiding behind outrageously thick glasses and a student’s casual clothing. Dimmock was on the other side of the bar, scoping out new territory. Did Sally - Greg groaned inwardly as Sally pulled out a walkie talkie, obviously signaling Dimmock to Greg’s presence. He was going to kill them both. Violently. He scanned the bar, checking to make sure he didn’t see who he was meeting before taking a spot on one of the stools. All he knew was tall, blue scarf, long coat. Should be easy enough.

It wasn’t long before a presence slid onto the stool next to him, and Greg spun, affixing a wide, easy grin to his face, before he froze. “Sherlock?” Greg sputtered. “What are you doing here?”

Sherlock’s smile was Cheshire, near predatory, and he signaled the barkeeper for - something. “Why don’t you wait and find out, Detective Inspector.” Greg swallowed at how low Sherlock’s voice had dropped, how it was nearly a purr, liquid seduction.

He pulled his drink a bit closer to himself. “Sorry, don’t think so. No cases for you. John told me to ban you for a week, after that incident with the eyeballs. Still have twenty odd hours to go.”

“Oh, I’m not here for a case,” Sherlock said, the corner of his lips quirking up as he accepted the drink from the barkeeper. He sipped it, eyes falling closed, eyelashes stark contrast against his pale skin, the tilting back of his head emphasizing his pale neck, framed by - 

Oh no.

No no no.

“I’m here on...personal matters.” Sherlock sat down the drink, and his eyes seemed to glow as he watched Greg, like he wanted to eat him.

Tall. Blue scarf. Long coat. Bloody fecking hell. “You?” Greg blinked.

Something shifted between them, and the air nearly crackled with electricity as Sherlock leaned forward, his lips brushing Greg’s ear. “Is that a problem...Detective Inspector?” 

Greg realized there were words he should be saying. But he couldn’t really remember what they were. Something about Sherlock so intently focused - dare he say seductive? - had set his mind on fire and he just sat there, blinking. “What?”

Sherlock pulled back, looking amused. He picked up the rest of his drink and drained it, gesturing to Greg. “Drink.”

An order. Greg could do that. Drinking was easy. He lifted the glass to his lips and poured the rest of the scotch down, feeling the pleasant burn as it slid down his throat. It was only after he was halfway through his next scotch that he realized there was a hand on his leg. He looked down at it, and then at Sherlock, narrowing his eyes at the far too innocent look on the man’s face. “Trying to get me arrested for public indecency, are you?” Greg asked suspiciously.

“Trying?” Sherlock was the picture of amused innocence. The hand slid closer, dipping down into the divot between Greg’s thighs, and Greg parted his legs unconsciously, allowing Sherlock’s hand to sneak closer to his rapidly hardening cock. “Perhaps.” Greg kind of wished at that point he could see the expression on Sally’s face, on Dimmock’s, especially once they realized what was happening. It would be the perfect set of pictures for his wall. He did need new decorations.

Greg downed the last of the scotch and plunked the glass down on the bar. “Maybe we should go someplace,” he declared boldly. That was the scotch’s fault, he was sure of it. He wasn’t actually propositioning Sherlock Holmes, not with his long, nimble fingers, those pouty lips, and… “Yeah. Let’s do that.” 

Sherlock was on his feet and towing him out of the bar without another word.


	12. Self-Awareness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF
> 
> See I write fluffy.
> 
> Yes I do.
> 
> Based off of this prompt: Parentlock with Sherstrade or Johncroft? Love some domestic floofiness :3

“Greg!” Sherlock came hurtling out of the bathroom.

Greg jolted and dropped the paper, standing and looking for the source of danger. In the process, he of course stepped on one of baby Ella’s toys, and hissed at the sharp pain on the bottom of his feet. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t help her clean up. “What? What’s wrong?” He looked between Ella, who was sitting carefully on Sherlock’s hip, and his husband, who was grinning fiercely. “Why does Ella have makeup on her nose?”

“Demonstrating self-awareness, of course. Come, come!” Sherlock reached out a hand and grabbed Greg, dragging him into the bathroom. He let go of Greg to prop Ella up on the counter so she could see the mirror. She blinked at it, her beautiful brown eyes, before slowly, deliberately reaching a hand up and rubbing at the makeup on her nose. Sherlock looked at Greg, the grin threatening to crack his face in half.

His face fell a little when Greg blinked at Sherlock, and the consulting detective rolled his eyes. “Did you read none of the books I bought?”

“You mean that three foot stack of books in the living room? Ah, no. Not quite,” Greg admitted, the smallest bit sheepish. Sherlock had been fanatic in preparation for Ella’s adoption, reading anything and everything he could get his hands on. Greg had been much more laid back, figuring that he could prevent the worst of the damage that would come from living with Sherlock, and really, parenting couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Ella is demonstrating her ability to recognise herself in the mirror. Really, Greg, it’s a major cognitive leap.” He swooped Ella off the counter and tromped out of the bathroom.

“Sherlock, she’s got legs, you know,” Greg called, following at a more leisurely pace. “She does have to use them, every once in a while.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock muttered, dropping down to the floor and pulling close one of Ella’s favourite toys. She really was a patient child, Greg reflected as he walked into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Able to put up with Sherlock’s antics, crazy as they might be, and grin and clap her hands and babble ‘Dadda’ and ‘sum sum’ and whatever else she came up with. Sherlock was always ‘Dadda’, Greg simply ‘Da’. Greg was just happy she finally differentiated and no longer got upset when the wrong ‘Dadda’ showed up at her beckoning.

He came out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea, keeping one and placing the other in the middle of the coffee table so Ella’s short arms couldn’t reach it, but Sherlock’s could. Sherlock had upended the box next to him, setting it in front of Ella. He offered her each plush toy, one by one. They were large stuffed microbes that Sherlock had ordered as soon as Ella had arrived, and Sherlock liked to sit down with her and teach her the basics of science.

It was to the point that Ella could name (roughly) most of the microbes. “Col,” she said obediently, taking the common cold microbe from Sherlock and shaking it up and down, giggling happily. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, and he gently kissed her soft brown hair. Greg watched them, sitting on the sofa, sipping his tea, and smiled back. Life with Sherlock could be rough sometimes, but it was oh so worth it, especially now that they had a third member of their life to share with them.

“Nap,” Ella chanted. “Nap, nap, nap, nap, nap.” She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and Sherlock chuckled, easing her onto his lap. “Nooononono,” Ella babbled, tossing her head side to side. “No crib.”

“But you just said nap,” Sherlock pointed out, logic to a fault. “Therefore, crib.”

“Da!” Ella twisted to catch sight of Greg. She lifted a chubby arm and pointed his way, then turned to look at Sherlock defiantly, the arm wavering and then returning to her side.

“Looks like it’s you for today,” Sherlock said, rising easily and allowing Greg time to set aside the tea.

“Hello, love,” Greg said with an easy smile, taking Ella from his partner and kissing her chubby little cheeks. “What say Dadda join us on the couch for a cuddle?”

Ella seemed to think about this for a few moments, then blinked and yawned, little fists rubbing at her eyes. Greg gently pressed her to his chest, allowing her head to roll on his shoulder. “You know the drill, Sherlock, love.”

Sherlock made a faint noise of protest, but crossed to the sofa regardless, sitting at one end, the remote to the telly in his hands. Greg laid down, careful to not dislodge Ella from where she was starting to drift off, and slid her downward so she was resting more fully on his chest. The positioning left his head on Sherlock’s lap, so Sherlock could see them both. Greg smiled up at his husband. “Hello,” he murmured.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. “Sleep, love. You’ll need it when she wakes up.”

“Off to Barts?” Greg asked, allowing one arm to relax while winding the other about the little girl.

“Yes.” Sherlock smoothed a hand over Ella’s soft hair, a warm smile on his face. It made Greg want to kiss him, seeing how warm and affectionate he was towards Ella. Sherlock slipped a hand into Greg’s hair, soothing, and before Greg could say anything, he slipped over the edge into sleep.


	13. A Christmas Tradition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this prompt: YAY SHERSTRADE. Christmas fluff involving a fireplace. Unspecific. Maybe Sherlock hates the holiday but Greg absolutely loves it and so Sherlock does something for him?

When Greg stepped inside 221B, he had to stop and take a second to think exactly what they had stored that would have caused the entire flat to be coated in a fine white powder. Even the armchairs had not escaped the destruction. “Sherlock?” Greg said cautiously, taking off his jacket and hanging it up.

“Hmph,” came the reply. It was from the general direction of the kitchen, and Greg dutifully headed over, stopping to swipe his finger through a trail of dust. It smelled familiar. He froze as he entered the kitchen.

“Flour,” Greg said, blinking. The flat was covered in flour. “What are you doing with flour?” he asked incredulously.

The consulting detective was hunched over the kitchen counter, shielding something with his body so that Greg couldn’t see it. “Nothing,” he replied irritably. “Go away. You weren’t supposed to be home for another two or three hours.”

“Alright,” Greg said amicably, although a glance at the clock revealed that Sherlock either didn’t know what time it was or had added a couple hours to Greg’s work clock that he didn’t know existed. He grabbed the remote and settled in front of the telly, doing the damndest to ignore Sherlock and the clanging that was coming from the kitchen. Sherlock was muttering to himself, and Greg could hear him shifting things around, pressing buttons on their appliances and clanging metal bowls. “What are you doing in there?” he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock ignored him, and Greg gave up. He could figure it out later. However, when the fire alarm started making noise, Greg wasn’t able to ignore Sherlock’s activities any longer. With a groan, he lifted himself from the comfortable sofa and wandered into the kitchen, where Sherlock was pulling out something from the oven. He placed it on top, glaring fiercely at the blackened remnants littering the top. “Cookies?” Greg asked incredulously, and Sherlock jumped. “You’re making cookies?”

Sherlock turned pink and studiously turned away from Greg. “No.” Greg wandered farther into the kitchen, catching sight of some dough.

“That’s why the flour.” All of the pieces were falling together, and a smile lit up Greg’s tired face. “You were making cookies.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock glared at the - Greg was tickled to see a cookbook in front of him. He wasn’t completely surprised that Sherlock had a cookbook, but he was surprised to see him using it. “You stated that there was a tradition that your family held when you were younger - completely ridiculous, of course - and I thought it would be an interesting to manipulate a traditional cookie recipe, since it is a common method of poisoning, to slip it into something edible.”

Greg paused, leaning against the counter. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with me wanting cookies but having no time to make them, would it?”

“Don’t be silly.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. “Now, please vacate yourself from the kitchen.”

“Nah.” Greg chuckled. “Go start the fireplace, and I’ll clean this place up.” Sherlock hesitated and then walked over, leaning down and giving Greg a gentle kiss.

“Welcome home.” Then he turned and sauntered out of the kitchen like he owned the place (which he did), grabbing a log and shoving stuff out of the way.

Greg smiled to himself and set about cleaning up the kitchen, clearing it of the disaster that Sherlock had created in his attempts to make cookies. It warmed his heart, that Sherlock actually tried. That Sherlock had gone out of his way to do something for Greg, even after he had spent the better part of the month ranting about how it was a ridiculous holiday. He sat the dishes in the sink, resolving to soak them later.

Sherlock had gotten the fire crackling and prodded it. Greg sank down on the sofa with a sigh, resuming his comfortable position from earlier. Sherlock huffed when he turned around, having changed into a clean set of pyjamas, and forcibly squirmed his way between Greg and the back of the sofa, draping himself over Greg’s chest. “Hello,” Greg murmured, wrapping an arm about Sherlock and kissing the top of his head.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Sherlock muttered, settling closer, his head under Greg’s chin. Greg smiled, the warmth of the fireplace warming him, and the fire itself cast a rosy glow about the entire room.

“I’ll teach you how to make cookies tomorrow.” Sherlock hummed his agreement, already half asleep. Greg rearranged himself slightly, making himself comfortable, and together, the two drifted off to sleep.


	14. The Library is a Wonderful Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: john teasing sherlock about his crush on lestrade, but not in a mean or mocking way, he genuinely thinks it's cute that sherlock likes lestrade who denies the crush is as bad as it is.

“You fancy him, don’t you?” John asked, eyeing his friend speculatively. The particular shade of crimson Sherlock turned and the way he quickly huffed and spun away from Greg’s direction was quite telling, but John was nice and didn’t comment. Much.

“No I don’t,” Sherlock replied quickly, crossing his long arms over his chest and leaning back in the chair. They were at lunch, halfway through their school day, and John was the only one who would dare sit with Sherlock. That is, except for Greg. Greg was one of John’s mates from the rugby team, and the lone one that would occasionally be brave enough to join him when he was sitting with Sherlock.

“Liar,” John jibbed good-naturedly. It was cute, the way Sherlock blushed when Greg came over, the way he would stammer and quickly make excuses to be somewhere else. He seemed oblivious to the way Greg would watch his arse as he darted off, to the fact that Greg only seemed to have an excuse to check in with John when Sherlock was around. John would have put money on Greg not being there to see him. “It’s adorable, your little crush.”

Sherlock slammed his book down and glared fiercely at his friend. “I do not have a crush on Lestrade,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Sherlock and Greg, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” John hummed under his breath. Sherlock kicked him under the table.

“Hi John, Sherlock,” Greg said amicably, settling into the chair next to John and offering Sherlock a wide smile.

Sherlock scrambled for his bookbag, nearly tripping over his own feet, and darted off without a word. Greg blinked, turning to John. “Was it something I said?”

“Nah,” John replied easily, leaning back in his chair, amused. “I think you should go to the library, though.”

A grin slowly spread across Greg’s face, and he pushed back from the table and strode off in the direction Sherlock had taken. John chuckled to himself. Perfect.

Sherlock settled down in the corner of the library he often claimed as his own during lunch and his free period. He placed his biology textbook in front of him, preparing to peruse it for mental notes, and sat his notebook and pencil off to the side, in case he got ideas for any new experiments.

“Hello.” Greg smiled, his tone friendly. Sherlock tensed, starting to gather his stuff. “Hey, where’re you going?”

“Anywhere,” Sherlock muttered, cramming the notebooks in his bag.

“I just had a couple questions for you, is all,” Greg assured him. Sherlock paused. His heart was pounding rapidly, and he felt dizzy, like all the air had been evacuated from the room. It was difficult to breathe. To think.

He forced himself to gather his focus back. “Don’t be boring,” he muttered officiously, but he stopped putting his supplies away and focused his attention back on Greg.

The other teen was suddenly closer, and Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I won’t be,” Greg murmured, and he confidently closed the space between them, capturing Sherlock’s lips in a passionate kiss.

From his vantage point around the corner, John grinned fiercely. Finally!

“Celebrating?” came the sultry voice of one of Greg’s fellow upperclassman. John blinked fiercely, subtly moving away from his vantage point.

“I don’t know what you mean,” John answered staunchly. “Just looking for a book.”

Mycroft Holmes’ lips curved into a seductive smile. “I think I might know where you can find this...book.”

John lifted an eyebrow, his heart thumping oddly in his chest. “Why don’t you show me?”

“I think I shall.” Mycroft beckoned for John to follow him out of the library.


	15. A (Late) Christmas Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: Heya could you write a fanfic (sherstrade) where there's a Christmas party with everyone from the yard at it and Sherlock only goes because Lestrade asked him to come and he kisses him under the mistletoe and everyone saw it. Thank you :)

Sherlock glared at the glass of scotch in front of him. It was practically offensive, sitting there existing. Sherlock picked it up and downed it, ignoring the fiery feeling as it went down his throat to pool in his belly. It was his third, and the world was starting to feel vaguely warm and fuzzy. Or about as warm and fuzzy as it ever got for him, anyway. Stupid yarders. Why hold parties at pubs? Probably access to copious amounts of alcohol, Sherlock decided after a moment of reflection.

The only reason he had came was because Lestrade had invited him, had practically begged him. John had (additionally) informed Sherlock that if he happened to stay in 221B, he would witness Mycroft coming over and they planned to celebrate. Vigorously. It had not been a particularly difficult decision, as much as Sherlock wasn’t completely fond of pubs. He gestured at the bartender for another drink.

He could see his partner out of the corner of his eye, and saw him laughing with one of the other DIs and a couple of the yarders. Lestrade had a beer in his hand and he sipped it every so often. Beer. Sherlock scowled. Plebeian. Boring. Unnecessary. One might as well drink water. Sherlock watched as Sally made her exit, followed five minutes later by Anderson. Obvious. 

If 221B wasn’t an option, maybe he could just go back to Lestrade’s flat. It wasn’t like Lestrade would notice him leaving, not with how little attention he had paid to Sherlock. Not that Sherlock was, in any way, jealous. Of course not. There was no use being jealous of the other yarders. “Bored?” Without Sherlock noticing, Lestrade had slipped into the seat next to him, and had removed the fresh drink the bartender had brought out of Sherlock’s reach..

Sherlock snorted, drawing a chuckle from Lestrade. “I don’t even know why I came.”

“Because I asked,” Lestrade said matter of factly. “And you’re my partner, and I happen to be rather fond of you.”

“The rest of them aren’t.” Sherlock looked pointedly at the assorted yarders. A few were watching their interactions with curious eyes.

“They’re just jealous.” Lestrade glanced up, and Sherlock’s eyes followed.

“Mistletoe,” Sherlock said with a scowl. He turned his head away, snatched the drink back, a long finger tracing the rim. Lestrade had been very strict about keeping their relationship secret, although Sherlock didn’t particularly care. He had been able to understand Lestrade’s point about the flack he would get if everyone knew they were sleeping together, and he didn’t want to cause any trouble for him.

It grated on him, a bit, having to keep it a secret. Not being able to touch him unless they were inside, in their homes. Not being able to kiss him. He didn’t mind as much during a case, when his mind was whirling, occupied with all other thoughts. But nights like tonight were supposed to be about family, and Lestrade was as close to family as Sherlock was going to get. Some nights were simply harder than others.

“You look sad.” Lestrade cut into Sherlock’s thoughts, his voice gentle.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied automatically, lifting the drink, tilting it towards Lestrade in a mockery of a salute, and then taking a sip. Not that it mattered that they were under mistletoe. Lestrade wouldn’t kiss him in public. Wouldn’t risk blowing their secret. He scowled at the alcohol, as if it held all of the answers.

“Sherlock.” Lestrade plucked the drink from his hand, tipped his chin up, and kissed him. It wasn’t a chaste kiss by any means. It was hot and sinful, and Sherlock couldn’t help but respond, ignoring the fact they were surrounded by Yarders (who were probably gaping as their brain cells fried, Sherlock thought triumphantly). It was short nonetheless, probably to reduce their likelihood of Lestrade (or his coworkers) arresting them for public indecency, but by the time they broke apart, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to fuck Lestrade against the nearest surface.

Since that most definitely would have gotten them arrested for public indecency, he settled with sitting and staring. “Let’s go home,” Lestrade advised.

Sherlock smirked, kissed him again, and then dragged Lestrade out of the pub, ignoring the staring Yarders they left behind. He had more - pressing priorities.


	16. For Science

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: "There's always something." Sherstrade AU(ish?) It's very rare that Sherlock misses a few things and he likes to think of himself as a sociopath. One of things that he missed is that he's been in the presence of a genuine sociopath for the past 5+ years. (I love the idea of a sociopath!Lestrade. :3)

Greg had always thought it rather funny. Sherlock tossing around ‘high-functioning sociopath’ like it was a definition he owned. Like it was something that applied to him. Even Greg could see through the paper-thin outer layer of Sherlock’s rather nice clothes and see the tenderness underneath. It was a defense mechanism, really.

It had taken Greg years of careful study before he could emulate the normal parts of human behavior. The distress at talking to a distraught witness. The world-weary expression of a DI who had just seen far too much death. Horror over a particularly vicious double-homicide. Even the warm smile he gave his (now ex) wife over dinner, something special, just for them. It was tiring, exhausting at points, but Greg did it.

Sherlock, however, wore identities like other people did clothes. It was fascinating, in a way, seeing how he could turn his emotions on and off. He was a manipulator who had tried to take advantage of Greg more than once. Hell, every time Greg met him he could see what Sherlock was trying to do. It was kind of cute, how Sherlock thought he was being clever. He didn’t say anything, of course. It was more important that, for now, he kept up his ruse.

It was strange, being a sociopath inside New Scotland Yard. Sometimes Greg thought the inherent contradiction was the only reason he stayed. Still, Sherlock provided some amount of amusement, and there was a bit of a kick out of picking apart the crimes of the more idiotic criminals. There were worse jobs. Besides, he got to work with Sherlock Holmes and learn the key to taking him apart.

That had been one of the bigger surprises in Greg’s life, when Sherlock came into his office one evening and pinned him to the chair and kissed him senseless. Not that Greg had particularly objected. Sherlock’s mouth was warm and wet, he was (surprisingly) a good kisser, and his fingers had done things that made Greg’s head spin. He had certainly been amenable to furthering their relationship.

As Greg was a sociopath, love wasn’t exactly something he was wired for. He could recognise that Sherlock was attractive and enjoy what Sherlock did to him, but he didn’t feel the overwhelming sense of love and affection he had read about in books. Not that Greg minded, not really. He was still fond of Sherlock, and although it wasn’t the most interesting thing to do with his spare time, having Sherlock’s long, lanky body curled up against him wasn’t a huge inconvenience.

It did mean that he had to be careful. That he had to monitor his facial expressions more often. It was exhausting, sometimes, to pretend to be worried about a case, pretend to be harried, when really, he didn’t particularly care. Sometimes the last thing he wanted to do was put on a mask and pretend that the world mattered.

So when Greg looked up from studying a case file one evening to see Sherlock standing there, his eyes narrowed and his expression thoughtful, he knew he was in trouble. He sat the file aside with a sigh, leaned back in his chair. “Yes?”

Sherlock closed the door and sat down in front of Greg. His fingers were steepled under his chin and his elbows on the desk. Greg stared back evenly. He wasn’t afraid of Sherlock. “What are you?” Sherlock asked finally, leaning back and away from Greg.

Greg shrugged. “Does it matter?” he asked. It wasn’t even worth it to pretend, not anymore. Sherlock would either be okay with it, or he wouldn’t. Either option didn’t really bother Greg.

“You’re a sociopath, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change, but Greg could read him well. There was a smattering of hurt, overruled by the dominant emotion - curiosity.

“Possibly.” Greg offered him a smile. “What does it matter?”

Sherlock studied him for a few moments, something intent about him. Greg liked it. It would be far less boring than he had anticipated. Fun, instead of something he tolerated. “I’ll be waiting,” Sherlock said finally.

Greg picked the case file back up and offered him a smile. “I’ll be home soon.”

Sherlock grinned and then left. Greg watched him go, a smirk on his face. Sherlock would do anything for science.


	17. There is Nothing Wrong With me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled for this prompt: Could you write some Sherstrade, but with Asexual!Greg? Thank you. :)

Growing up, Greg had tried to avoid relationships. They weren’t really his thing. He wasn’t drawn to other people like they were to him. They wanted things he wasn’t willing to do. But when he had met Sophie, he fell in love. He decided to try doing what the rest of humanity so enjoyed. Maybe he was just broken, like his father had told him. Maybe Sophie was just the right person, something his mother endorsed. Whatever it was, whyever it was, it worked.

For a while.

They got married. Didn’t have kids, something Greg was thankful for. He was never fond of the sex, not really, but it was what was expected, so he did it anyway. Eventually she just stopped asking, and Greg was left alone. He went to work. Dealt with Sherlock and his piles of paperwork. Came home. Sometimes they had dinner. More often than not, she was working late, or taking a class, or something. Any excuse for why she wasn’t home.

Greg should have known better, really. He should have seen the signs. So when Sherlock pointed out that she was cheating on him, Greg hated that he was surprised. He blamed himself. It was his fault. Something about him was broken, wrong, and he should have tried harder to fix it. His work suffered. He started drinking. For a few months, the world seemed bleak.

Then one day, he came home and turned on his laptop, a scotch in hand already. He opened up the browser to check his email, and stopped. Stared. His browser opened to a page he had never seen before. One that described asexuality, something that Greg had never heard of. Talked about how some people experienced no sexual attraction. How they lived in a world where everyone else did, and never learned how to realize that they weren’t broken, just different.

It detailed how asexuals felt broken. Abnormal. Like there was something so fundamentally wrong with them that they needed to be fixed. Greg swallowed, and sat aside the glass of scotch. He spent hours reading through the website, reading the forums, reading every bit of information he could get Once he was done, he laid in his bed and stared at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep.

Finally, he had a word for who he was. What he was. Asexual. He tried it out, said it, and the word felt right. He felt safe. Sane. For the first time in a long time he felt comfortable in his skin. As he closed his eyes to sleep, he cried, and for once, he did not hate himself. He didn’t blame himself. Suddenly, everything was not his fault. He couldn’t change how he was born. Who he was. There was nothing wrong with him.

It took a few weeks, before Greg felt more at ease with himself. Before he stopped feeling like he was wearing another person’s skin. He noticed a change in how he conducted himself at work. Everyone commented on it, and Greg could almost see them relax around him. He was smiling more, when appropriate. Laughing, for the first time in months. Even Sherlock offered him a quiet, secret smile. Greg had stared curiously back. It was rare that Sherlock smiled without something behind it, and Greg wanted to know what.

Sherlock sat in his office, by himself, two months later. The door was closed and the blinds were shut. It was just the two of them, cozy and intimate. Greg was surprised that it didn’t bother him. He had been attracted to Sherlock for a long time - a low, simmering desire to hug him and hold him and kiss him, but nothing more. It had been something he ignored, before he knew who he was. Still, he was scared to even think about it. It was still new. Frightening. He didn’t know how other people would react.

They sat in silence for several minutes, both perusing case files. Sherlock was bored, and Greg had offered him some of his cold cases. He hoped that Sherlock would be able to give him some new leads. It was a comfortable quiet. Greg liked it. Outside of crime scenes, he didn’t really spend much time with the consulting detective, not since John came in the picture. “I would like to take you to dinner.” Greg jerked his head up in surprise, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes.

It took him a few seconds to comprehend exactly what Sherlock had said. To realize what it meant. Greg’s cheeks coloured and he dropped his eyes to the desk, fidgeting with his pen. “I’m, er, flattered, but I’m not really interested in dating.”

“No,” Sherlock corrected, his voice oddly gentle. “You’re interested in dating, in romantic attachments, but you are uninterested in sex or its associated behaviors. You are anxious about dating someone who you think would consider that a limitation, who would think you broken, but there is nothing wrong with you.”

Greg tensed, for a moment. He had not given as much thought as to who had loaded that website onto his computer as he should have. In retrospect, it was as plain as the nose on his face. Only Sherlock would do something like that. Break into his flat to load a webpage onto his laptop. Greg smiled at Sherlock, so grateful that his heart felt like it was going to explode. “Thank you,” he said softly, and he meant it.

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. Sat one of his hands on the table, palm up. Offering.

Greg looked between Sherlock and the hand. He took Sherlock’s hand in his, stroked it with a finger. “Yes.”


	18. The Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: Since you're so intent on breaking my heart... An angst sherstrade I shall prompt. Five years ago, Lestrade gave Sherlock a scarf. Lestrade scent doesn't linger on it anymore, but Sherlock still wears it everywhere. Lestrade may or may not be aware that he's Sherlock security blanket.

Sherlock had been dismissive of it, when Lestrade first gave him the scarf. He didn’t need it. Didn’t want it. Didn’t want a reminder of the DI to lurk about his flat, didn’t want to remember how Lestrade would sit by his bed and quietly wait for him to come down from a high. How Lestrade was always patient and gentle, even when Sherlock snapped at him. Sometimes Lestrade would snap back, would rub his forehead, sigh, be frustrated, but never in a harsh way. Sherlock always knew where he stood with Lestrade.

So one night, days later, he laid on the sofa, scowling at the ceiling. He felt miserable, at the end of coming down, and all he wanted was another hit. Lestrade had taken his mobile, confiscated it since they were busting his dealer and he didn’t want Sherlock to get in trouble. He didn’t want to risk Sherlock being there when they busted the home with drugs. Inconsiderate. Too considerate.

The scarf was within reach, so Sherlock grabbed it and covered his face with it. Tried to block out the lights that were being too bright. He inhaled and exhaled, normal breathing, and got hit with a wave of scent that made his insides roll, made him feel too warm, safe, content. The scarf still smelled like Lestrade. Sherlock ripped it off his face, threw it across the room, sat up, his breathing suddenly too fast. No, no. He knew what that meant, what those feelings were, and the only thing it lead to was pain.

Less than two minutes later, Sherlock rolled off the sofa, grabbed the scarf, and wrapped it around his neck. Cherished it. Inhaled deeply. Reveled in how it made him feel. Lestrade wasn’t there, he couldn’t see. No one could. Sherlock was safe.

He wore the scarf every time he went out, even when it no longer smelled like Lestrade - like Greg. Even five years later, the scarf worn in some places, Sherlock still wore it. John had bought him a new one, but Sherlock ignored it. It wasn’t the same. Every time Sherlock put on his scarf, he could think about Greg picking it out for him, thinking about what Sherlock would like and what colour looked best on him. He could be vain, could dream, could hope. John’s scarf paled in comparison.

Sherlock sat in the chair in Greg’s office. He had come to give his statement about the previous day’s capture, and for some reason, had lingered. Greg was doing paperwork and entering things into the computer. He had a habit of biting his pens, something Sherlock disapproved of but nonetheless found rather endearing. It was something about the way Greg’s lips moved, he decided. “Sherlock?” Greg inquired, questioning.

Oh. Greg must have noticed him staring. “Yes?” Sherlock drawled, lifting his gaze to focus on Greg’s face instead of his far too interesting hands.

“Did you need something else, or are you just going to stay in my office for the afternoon?” Greg’s gaze flickered to the scarf, and a faint smile crossed his lips. Then his eyes were back on Sherlock’s so quickly that for a moment Sherlock thought he had imagined it.

Sherlock shrugged. “John is at work, and my experiments are not at a crucial stage.”

“I’ve got some cold cases you can look at, if you’d like.” Greg pulled a couple files out from his desk, sat them on top, just within Sherlock’s reach.

Sherlock nodded, and picked one of them up. He didn’t bother saying thank you. For some reason he was quiet. Withdrawn. He tried not to think about it, what it meant, what it said, that he could just sit near Greg and relax in his presence. There was something about the other man that made Sherlock feel safe.

“John said he bought you a new scarf,” Greg commented. Sherlock didn’t look up from the case file.

“Yes.” He turned the page, frowning at the autopsy results.

“Why aren’t you wearing it?” This time Sherlock lifted his head, the slightest frown on his face. What did Greg mean by that? It sounded like a simple question, but Sherlock wasn’t certain it was. “That one’s old and ratty, by now,” Greg added by way of explanation.

Sherlock shrugged, flipped to a different page of the file. He could feel Greg’s eyes on him. His skin felt warm, prickly, and he was hyper aware of Greg’s movement as the DI stood and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge. “Sherlock?” he asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed, closed his eyes briefly, aware his cheeks were heating up. He wasn’t sure what Greg was doing. Was he teasing him? Making fun of him? Or was it something more? Sherlock hated that he didn’t have enough data to draw a conclusion. “Convenience,” he answered finally, his voice raspy and hoarse to his ears.

Greg smiled, and Sherlock looked at him, really looked, and what he saw made him want to run away, made him want to stay, get closer. There was affection in his eyes, warmth, a wanting so intense that Sherlock could feel it in the air between them. “I’m off Saturday,” Greg said softly, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. “We could get you a new one. Then I could take you to dinner. Maybe watch a movie.” His voice was inquisitive. It was an offer, a sincere one. Sherlock could say no, and nothing would change. Greg wouldn’t push him.

Sherlock looked down at the case file for a few moments. Studied it. Tried to remember how to breathe. “I would be amenable,” he said finally. Greg smiled and kissed him. Sherlock was amenable to that, too.


End file.
